


You Stumble, You Soar

by boomerbird10



Category: NCIS
Genre: F/M, Happy Ending, Jet Lag alternate timeline, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, non-graphic mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:27:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24205888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boomerbird10/pseuds/boomerbird10
Summary: What if Tony and Ziva had just a little more time in Paris in "Jet Lag"?
Relationships: Ziva David/Anthony DiNozzo
Comments: 4
Kudos: 37





	1. Chapter 1

"You stumble, you soar. And if you're lucky, you make it to Paris for a while."

— Amy Howard

* * *

" _Bounjour._ "

"Come on, Ziva, give me a hard one. Even I know _that_. _Bonjour._ "

"Do not become overconfident, Tony, or else everyone in France will mark you at once as an American."

"What's wrong with that?"

She gives him a look. " _Au revoir_."

" _Au revoir_."

" _Où sont les toilettes, s'il vous plaît?_ "

"I don't know what you just said, but you were definitely talking about bathrooms. Gross, Ziva."

She gives him another look, unimpressed by his teasing. "I asked where the toilet is. You try."

" _Où sont_ lez… what was it, again?"

"Forget it. Stay close to me and avoid getting lost, because I do not think you will ever be able to speak French, Tony DiNozzo."

"Why would I ever need to, when I have you?"

* * *

Their plane lands at Charles de Gaulle and Ziva tries very hard to ignore Tony's childlike enthusiasm—and childlike behavior in general—as she focuses on leading them through the airport and onto the RER train that will take them into the city. He keeps up a constant stream of chatter, excited about everything they see…

Why is it so endearing?

Ziva herself visited Paris for the first time as a small child, and though she loves the city—and she _does_ love Paris—she isn't as wowed by it as she used to be. It's more than a little entertaining to see everything through Tony's eyes, despite her determined preoccupation.

They have a job to do, though, something Ziva keeps reminding herself.

* * *

Two things happen in short succession when they reach their hotel room. The first is that they see the room—it's supposed to have two queen sized beds, side by side, one for each of them.

There isn't. There's just one bed.

They blink at the single king. "Well…" Tony says after a moment. "Guess one of us is taking the couch."

"You," Ziva answers in agreement.

"Me? Why me?"

"You go on and on about how you are a _man_ ," she teases. "Is that not the job of the man in any partnership, to make the woman comfortable?" Her voice is sardonic, taunting, less believing in what she says than simply pulling his strings for the hell of it.

"I thought you were a feminist. Aren't we equal?"

"We are, but you are a good friend, so I believe you will volunteer for the couch."

"Oh, you think I'm a good friend?"

"Do not get distracted… and your head is large enough as is, Tony."

"You think I'm a good frieeeend," he sing-songs, laughing.

"You know what? I will take the couch."

"No, I will. I'm a good friend."

"And I am a better one."

"I'll fight you for it."

"Fine, you win, you may have the couch."

Tony bursts into laughter. "You're manipulative, you know that?"

Ziva can't help grinning back. "We can share. The bed, I mean, not the couch."

"We can?"

"Yes. We are adults. It will be fine."

"Okay, but no making indecent moves on me, right, Ziva?"

"Whatever you say, Tony."

"That's not a yes."

"If it will make you feel better, I will promise. I will not ravish your…" she looks distastefully up and down his frame, "...body. You have my word."

"You're rude. I don't know what you were taught about manners, but I think you missed a lesson or two."

She laughs again, unable to keep a straight face around him for too long. "It is what you asked for."

* * *

Shortly after the bed discussion, Tony gets a call. "DiNozzo," he answers lazily, and Ziva focuses on unpacking her toiletries so she can brush her teeth in preparation for bed. She listens with one ear, though.

"Mmhm. Yeah, we got here a few minutes ago. Wait, what?" A pause. "Well, should we go get her?" Another pause. "Are you sure?" One last pause. "Okay, then what should we do in the meantime? Oh— okay, I—" he pulls the phone away from his ear and frowns at it.

"What has happened?" Ziva pokes her head out of the bathroom to see him better rather than relying on his reflection in the corner of the mirror.

"The witness we're here to escort back to Washington… she isn't actually here."

"What? Where is she?"

"She apparently took a weekend trip to Dubrovnik, and now it's too late to change her flight back. There was a date mixup and she didn't know we were coming so soon."

"When is she returning, then?"

"Sunday morning."

It's Friday evening now.

"So we are just supposed to—"

"Gibbs hung up on me when I asked that question."

Ziva snickers at his disgruntled look. "So if we do not have case work to do, we will…?"

"Sight-see, I guess?"

" _Together_?"

"Don't sound so excited, Ziva."

She laughs. "This is… unexpected. I have been to Paris many times, and I have already seen 'the sights', yes? But I can show you around. I know it is all new to you, and Paris is a city to be appreciated, not simply viewed."

"I don't know if you're really up to scratch on your tour guide skills."

The fierce glint of someone accepting a challenge appears in her eye. "Tony, you have seen nothing yet."

* * *

After making a quick plan for the following day—Ziva is secretive about most of what they're going to see and do—they get ready for bed. It should be awkward, each having to move around one another in this small intimate space, but somehow, it isn't. Though their rhythm has been off ever since—well, the events that led them to the Horn of Africa—they still know one another very well. Maybe this weekend is what they need to get back into their usual groove.

Then they're climbing into bed, and it's… strange.

Each is at once relaxed and hyper aware of the person next to them. Every breath is counted, every little shift in position noted. There's an intimacy now that wasn't there when they shared a bed undercover four years ago, an understanding between them now that didn't exist then. They've seen one another at their best and at their worst, they've worried over one another and cried over one another, shared so many almost-moments and missed opportunities. They've become true partners in almost every sense of the word, and then they lost it all. Now they're trying to get it back.

It will be interesting to see what a weekend in the City of Love will do to them.


	2. Chapter 2

"Paris is a place in which we can forget ourselves, reinvent, expunge the dead weight of our past." — Michael Simkin

* * *

The bed they're sharing is a large one, and though they went to sleep on opposite sides of it, the rising sun in the morning finds them curled together.

As always, Ziva wakes first; she realizes immediately that something feels… off. She takes quick stock of her body and realizes that her head is pillowed on Tony's chest; his arms are slung snugly around her back, and their legs are tangled together. She can feel his heartbeat under her cheek, slow and strong, and she finds herself rather unwilling to leave this spot of unexpected comfort. There's no reason it should be, but it feels… nice.

She realizes quite suddenly that this is the first time she's been held by someone—truly held, at peace and content—since her time in Somalia.

The thought makes her feel a little sick, horrible memories cheapening the moment, and she pulls away hastily, trying to be gentle and avoid waking Tony. Luckily, he's a fairly heavy sleeper, and she succeeds.

By the time Tony opens his eyes, Ziva is dressed and ready for the day, and he seems none the wiser about the way they spent the night. "Are you going to sleep all day, or would you like to see Paris?" Ziva teases.

"Leave me alone, woman, I was having a great dream. I was dreaming about this _lady_ …" Ziva turns away so he won't see her expression. She thinks it's entirely possible that his dream stemmed from the scent of her hair or the feel of her skin as she slept against him.

"Hurry and get ready. We have things to do," she says instead of acknowledging what he said.

* * *

Ziva has a definite plan in mind for the bulk of the day, but Tony almost immediately steers her away from where she's leading him. "What are you doing?" she demands, surprised enough that she follows him for a moment automatically before realizing what she's doing and stopping.

"We're in Paris, Ziva. We can't just _walk_ everywhere. That would be absurd!"

"We were going to ride on the Metro," she corrects him, an eyebrow raised quizzically, "but why do I imagine you have a different idea?"

He certainly does.

Twenty minutes later, they're climbing on the Vespa that Tony _insisted_ on renting. "Are you certain that you know how to drive a scooter?" Ziva asks with a small amount of trepidation. She has little time to die in a Tony-induced accident today.

"Of course! It can't be _that_ hard!"

"That does not reassure me. You understand, yes, that the rules of the road are different here than in Washington?"

"I'm not stupid, Ziva." Tony turns around to frown at her, but his eyes are alight with hidden laughter. "And honestly, are _you_ really going to talk to me about road safety? How many times have I almost died with you behind the wheel?"

"I am an _excellent_ driver!" Ziva insists indignantly, but she's speaking to the back of his head because he's already turned back around. "It is the other drivers who—AHHH!" She interrupts herself with a yell because Tony has—with zero warning—revved the engine and sent them speeding out onto the road.

"I thought you said you knew how to drive this thing!" Ziva yells over the sudden wind in her ears and Tony's triumphant, wordless shout.

"I do!"

He definitely does not.

* * *

Their first stop is one of Ziva's favorite Parisian cafes, Café de Flore in the Latin Quarter. As they are seated and start to look over the menu, Ziva briefly explains the restaurant's history. "This is a place that many tourists love, but that is for good reason. It is one of Paris' oldest cafes, and it has been frequented by some of the greatest creative minds of the twentieth century. Ernest Hemingway, Pablo Picasso, Robert Desnos, Raymond Queneau… the list goes on."

"And now _we're_ here." Tony glances around; the morning light shining through the panes of glass bounces off the crisps white shirts of waiters as they bustle past. He's never felt so French; the atmosphere of the cafe demands the feeling.

"Yes, we are."

"What's good here?" Tony wants to know, his eyes excitedly scanning the simple black-and-white text of the menu.

"You must try the hot chocolate, if nothing else. I know your sweet mouth will appreciate it."

"Sweet _tooth_."

"Yes, that."

"Alright, I will."

What follows is a delicious culinary adventure through several types of pastries, all split between them until they can't eat another bite. They sit in sated silence for a few minutes after they finish their food and hot chocolate, bellies full and happy as they stare contentedly at crumbs dusting the green table top. "Damn. Parisians really know how to do pastries, don't they?" Tony says eventually, a vaguely dreamy expression on his face.

"They certainly do," Ziva agrees completely. "We have more things to see, however. Shall we?"

"We shall." Tony rises to his feet with a light groan, patting his stomach to emphasize its fullness before offering Ziva his hand in a surprisingly chivalrous move.

Ziva accepts, her heart skipping one tiny beat. (She reminds herself once again that he is her work partner, not a romantic interest—they've nearly been down this road enough times that she knows better than to imagine otherwise.)

* * *

After another mildly terrifying Vespa ride, Tony and Ziva burn off all the calories they just consumed by climbing to the top of the Arc de Triomphe. There, slightly out of breath, they get a birds' eye view of the timeless city and all its charms.

Observing the yellow-white walls of buildings that have seen centuries of history, neatly arranged down streets and boulevards lined with the fresh green of trees blooming for spring, Tony thinks quite suddenly that there's no one he would rather share this with. He glances at Ziva—she's looking away from him, down at the traffic circle that's too far below to hear its chaos. Her profile is as beautiful as the city he's falling in love with, and it occurs to him that he came very close to losing her not even half a year ago.

He's never been so glad for something _not_ happening, and he'd go back to that desert and risk death or worse dozens of times more if it meant he could relive this moment with her again and again, here among the birds and the buttery sunlight and the city that stretches on forever.

He slides his hand into hers. Though she doesn't look at him or acknowledge the move, she threads her fingers through his.

Eventually, Ziva lifts her other hand to point. "The Eiffel Tower is that way, as you can see. I thought we would go there next. It is about two kilometers away."

"No."

Now, she does look at him. "No? Tony, a trip to Paris is not complete without visiting its most famous landmark."

"I know." He doesn't say more, though, and after a moment, Ziva dismisses whatever he isn't saying with a shrug.

"Alright. To the Musée d'Orsay, then?"

"To the Musée d'Orsay."

* * *

They spend close to two hours meandering through the d'Orsay, both particularly enjoying the Monet collection. There's something undeniably romantic about whispering to one another as they observe pastel water and floral scenes, feeling lost in the paintings and the history and the almost intangible sensation of being at home in this magnificent place.

The whole time, they're hand in hand, and neither mentions it.

Then they have lunch at Le Galliera. Tony makes Ziva giggle almost helplessly as he tries his damnedest to order for them both in terrible French; the waiter is less than impressed, but Tony more or less gets his point across.

Considering this is still technically a work trip, they shouldn't order a bottle of wine and then another one, but they do. A meal with wine is the greatest Parisian inevitability; it turns out to be one of the best meals either has had in ages.

Following lunch, they go to the last stop that Ziva has planned for the day, the Louvre.

Tony finds himself far more impressed with the delicate architecture of the Louvre than with its most famous inhabitant—the surprisingly small _Mona Lisa_ —but he finds that he immensely enjoys other parts of the museum.

There are tourists everywhere, milling about the more well-known exhibits, and it's a good thing that Ziva dedicated their whole afternoon to exploring… it's an enormous building with too many exhibits to keep track of. At first, Ziva aims to show Tony the can't-miss art pieces: the _Winged Victory of Samothrace_ , the _Venus de Milo_ , _Liberty Leading the People_ … but then their tour becomes aimless.

Much like their visit to the Musee d'Orsay, they find themselves just walking, enjoying the art and one another's company.

Then they stumble across the room that turns out to be Tony's favorite of all: the Napoleon exhibit.

Here, there are no tourists. They're alone with the art and the history, free to speak as loudly or quietly as they would like, or to not speak at all; the space feels almost like a church, old and sanctified and echoey and welcoming. Like a church, it brings on the urge for confession.

Tony coughs suddenly, twenty minutes into their Napoleon exploration, and the noise makes Ziva startle... something Tony has rarely if ever seen her do.

He hasn't spent this much time with her since Somalia, though.

"Are you alright?" he asks, uncharacteristically gentle.

"Yes, of course I am." Ziva turns to him in surprise. "Why do you ask?"

"You're jumpy. I've never seen you like this."

"You would be, too, if you spent every moment waiting for your nightmares to reappear," she answers, her honesty surprising both of them.

"Are you talking about—"

"What do you _think_ I am talking about, Tony?"

That stops him short. He's often wondered what exactly happened to her in Africa, because she has never told him. He hates himself for wondering so much, though, for fearfully imagining, but he can't suppress the gut feeling that she needs to get at least some of it out before she loses herself to the memories… as much as he doesn't want to hear it.

"What happened over there, Ziva?"

"You do not want to know, and I do not want to say."

"That's not true," he argues softly, following her as she stalks away from him, deeper into the museum. "I think you want to talk about it. I think you need to."

"And when did you complete your psychology degree?" Ziva snaps, looking determinedly away from him; at least she has stopped walking.

"I don't know psychology, you're right, but I know _you_."

"Do you?" Ziva demands, turning suddenly to face him with fire in her eyes. "Do you know me? Does anyone? Can you possibly know what is left of me, Tony? Because I do not even know _myself_ anymore!"

That breaks Tony's heart, and he swallows. "Yes. If there's one goddamn thing I'm sure of, it's that I know you, even if _you_ aren't so sure."

"Think what you would like! You have never stopped forming your own opinions anyway, whether you had any information at all or not! Stop trying to get me to—"

"I'm just trying to look out for you! That's all! I know you went through hell, alright? I know that! I'm not demanding all the details, and I'm not asking out of morbid curiosity or whatever! I'm trying to keep you from collapsing in on yourself, Ziva!"

"Stop. Pushing." Her voice is at once quiet and deadly serious.

Not sure if it's the right thing to do, Tony does stop.

* * *

They reach an unspoken truce as they finish touring the museum, but neither is paying much attention to the exhibits anymore. Too worn out from both their active day and their suppressed emotions to search out a distant dinner spot, they decide to simply dine at one of the on-site restaurants, Le Café Marly.

They're both subdued throughout the meal, and it seems to Tony that Ziva is constantly on the verge of saying something. Every time she looks like she's about to speak, however, she bites her tongue and goes back to her plate.

Eventually, Tony cautiously decides to prompt her one more time—he doesn't want his head bitten off, but he can't let her stew like this without giving it another try. "Something on your mind?" he asks lightly.

"I…"

"Something about Somalia?" he hazards.

This time, rather than getting angry, Ziva just looks… tired. Sad. Maybe a little broken. "Yes."

"Something you need to get off your chest?"

"I… I can't, I..." The grief that wasn't strong enough to break through her anger earlier comes suddenly now, and Ziva ducks her head, staring at the fingers of her twisting and worrying hands in her lap as tears start to gather in her eyes. "I am fine," she insists, though Tony hasn't said anything, "and you should not have asked me in public."

"Oh, Ziva… I'm so sorry." Tony sounds exhausted, too, and pained. He's not apologizing for asking, Ziva's sure. He's hurting for her and what she went through, she knows, and though she loves him for it, it doesn't make her own pain any easier.

She's just going to have to feel this. She has been, little by little, but somehow it hurts more now, thinking of talking about it with someone who would go to the ends of the earth for her.

He lets her sit for a moment, tears falling silently to her lap from a curiously expressionless face, until he can't take it anymore. Then he reaches over and takes her hand. "Do you _want_ to talk about it? Because you don't have to, but… no offense, Ziva, but I don't think you would have entertained this conversation at all if you didn't."

"No," she snaps, hating how congested her voice sounds, but then she relents. "I do not know. Maybe."

"Then let's maybe get out of here." Without looking at him, Ziva can hear the small smile in his voice.

He may be an ass, and he may be obnoxious, but he may also be the best friend she's ever had.

He signals for the waiter to bring their bill, and before long, they're headed out into the cool spring air. Ziva heads for Tony's stupid rented Vespa, assuming they're heading back to their hotel, but he doesn't follow her. She looks back questionably, glad her tears have dried up for now, but he's standing back, shaking his head. "It's our only real night in Paris," he reminds her. "Let's go see the sights."

"What have we been doing all day, if not _seeing the sights_?" Ziva wants to know. "Tony, I am tired."

Tony tilts his head to one side. "Come on, I know my badass ninja assassin partner has at least a _little_ more in her, doesn't she? Humor me, Ziva."

He looks so earnest that she's tricked into nodding yes, intrigued as always by the occasional vulnerable side of him that sometimes makes its way out. "Alright—for a little while," she amends.

"That's the spirit! Come on, David. Let's go see the City of Lights by night."

She can't help but laugh when he drapes an arm ever-so-lightly around her shoulders. "You are in quite a mood tonight," she observes, walking willingly toward wherever he's headed.

"Yeah, well, somebody has to be, right?" he replies pragmatically, squeezing her shoulders.

For some inexplicable reason, the gesture warms her in a way her coat does not.

"Where are you dragging me?" She suspects she already knows, but him leading the way—and walking, no less, the Vespa still parked on a curb near the restaurant—is an unexpected change of pace.

"Really, Ziva, if you have to ask, you're not half as smart as I give you credit for. Where does any first time tourist in Paris go? Where did we _not_ go already?"

"The Eiffel Tower?" Ziva surmises.

"The one and only," Tony agrees.

"It is not the only one," Ziva counters, just to be argumentative. She loves verbally sparring with him, even if she won't admit it, and the familiarity of the bickering is soothing.

"Where are there others?"

"Do not tell me you have never been to Las Vegas."

"I have, but—oh. You mean the tiny one."

Ziva laughs; it's a little stilted, but it's genuine. Tony now seems content to let her decide when or if she wants to talk about more serious things, and she appreciates it. "It is not quite as impressive, but the design is the same, I suppose."

"Well, _you_ may not be easy to please, but _I_ thought it was cool. Anyway, this is why I didn't want to see the Tower earlier. I hear it lights up at night and that's got to be the best way to see it, right?"

"Right," she agrees.

They fall into companionable silence, focusing on the long walk at hand. The sun has long since set, and the energy of the city has subtly changed in a way that few other cities ever do. They become anonymous, just another two Parisians strolling toward Saturday night plans, nameless and faceless among the city lights and the beautiful spring evening.

It's comforting.

Before Ziva is even aware of what she's doing, she starts to talk. To his credit, Tony doesn't say a single word; he just holds onto her and lets her talk.

There's little emotion in Ziva's voice as she describes being tortured. It's factual, like someone reading from a textbook; she has removed herself from her memories to the best of her ability. There's more feeling, however, as she speaks of losing hope, hope she barely had in the first place. She tells him about wanting to give up, about not being allowed to, about wishing for death and receiving rescue instead.

She talks until the Tower is in sight, and when she's done, she falls silent.

Tony's only response is to drop the longest, most heartfelt kiss to the top of her head. Ziva's glad; somehow, any response he could have uttered out loud would have felt… cheap.

Inexplicably, some of the horrible weight on her tired soul disappears.

* * *

They stay silent when they reach the Tower; even Ziva, who has seen this sight many times, is struck dumb by the lights as they sparkle across the entire magnificent structure. She feels small, insignificant, like her problems are small and insignificant, too.

The thought brings tears back to her eyes, and she's just about to voice the idea when Tony nudges her. "Listen," he murmurs.

She stops and does so, focusing in on a sound that her analytical mind had already tuned out as unimportant. It's the sound of a violin and a piano mixing sweetly together. Ten meters away, two street performers stand alone and ignored, softly playing Chopin's _Nocturne in C Sharp Minor_.

Now that she's paying attention to it, Ziva's a little mesmerized, and she's startled slightly when Tony takes her hand again. "Let's dance," he says, the little smile on his face so hopeful that she can't say no.

Tony uses her hand to draw her closer and rests his other hand on her waist, sighing slightly when her second hand lands on his shoulder. Neither says another word, but they start to rotate and move side to side to the haunting melody; their eyes are locked together, and Tony thinks it might be the most intimate moment he's ever shared with anyone.

He doesn't mind at all.

As the song progresses, their bodies get closer and closer together, and the brightness of the Tour's display illuminates their faces like candlelight. Somehow, Ziva finds her eyes fluttering shut and her head leaning down to rest on Tony's shoulder. Maybe it's an illusion, and maybe the pain will come back tomorrow, but here, and now… she feels at once light of soul and cherished of heart.

The last note of the song dies slowly away into the night air, but Tony and Ziva don't notice, continuing to sway.


	3. Chapter 3

"There are only two places in the world where we can live happy: at home and in Paris."

— Ernest Hemingway

* * *

Sharing a bed is more comfortable, more natural the second night. Dancing and confiding have brought new closeness, and as the lights go off and the room falls into darkness, Ziva feels decidedly content. "Tony?" she murmurs.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For listening, and for… for reminding me."

"Of course. Reminding you of what, though?"

"Of what it means to let go."

He finds her hand in the darkness and holds on tight.

* * *

In the wee hours of the morning, something wakes Tony from a deep sleep, and he blinks his eyes open, confused and groggy. He can't place what woke him up, and it takes him a minute to figure out where he is—it's the smell of Ziva's hair that gives him the clue he needs to figure it out.

Ah, yes, _Paris_.

Everything seems normal in the room, no bright lights or loud noises to tip him off as to what made him stir, so after a moment, Tony closes his eyes and starts chasing sleep again. Then he hears it…

A moan.

It's obviously coming from Ziva, and he opens his eyes once more to glance at her. Afraid she's having a nightmare—particularly because of what they talked about earlier—he debates on whether or not to wake her.

By the time his eyes have adjusted to the darkness, Ziva has let out another groan, and Tony squints at her face. Her features are contracted into an expression that disappears before Tony can identify it, but she doesn't look _too_ upset, at least. Her body seems relaxed under the covers.

As soon as he has the thought, though, she starts shifting restlessly, and she makes another noise. Maybe it's time to wake her up.

"Ziva?"

She responds by moaning again; this time, it's his name.

Interesting.

"Ziva?"

* * *

_The bullpen has never seemed like a particularly sexy place, but it sure as hell is when Tony's head is between Ziva's legs._

_She's behind her desk, one foot planted on the floor and the other draped over the arm of her chair. She rarely if ever wears a skirt to work, always ready to run at the drop of a cat, but she's glad she did today. It gives Tony easy access—and he certainly isn't complaining. In fact, he's making hums of approval deep in his throat that make the strangest, most addictive vibrations across her clit as he sucks on it._

" _Mm, Tony," she groans._

_Good thing the office is empty besides the two of them._

_She can feel him smile and it does funny things to her insides. "What can I do for you, Agent David?" he purrs._

" _Harder. Fingers." Her language skills have clearly deteriorated, and it doesn't even occur to her that he shouldn't understand the words she just uttered in Hebrew; it was all she could get out. It doesn't matter, though—all that matters is that he follows her directions immediately._

_She hisses and spreads her legs further as he dips a finger and then two into her heat, even as his lips form a tighter seal and he increases the strength of his sucking._

_Fuck._

_This is almost agonizing, the way he's touching her and finger-fucking her without bringing her quite to the edge she's aching to reach, and to make matters worse, he keeps stopping what he's doing to taunt her. "Someone could walk in," he says, his voice rough—he's obviously just as turned on as she is. "What do you think of that, Ziva?"_

_A fresh surge of wetness against his fingers answers his question, and he laughs throatily. "Naughty, Ms. David. You're a dirty girl, aren't you?"_

_She can't even answer._

_Getting the hint, he puts his mouth right back where—in Ziva's opinion—it belongs. She lets her head drop to the back of the chair, her eyes sliding shut in ecstasy._

_Then Tony's talking again, and the tone of his voice is different somehow. "Ziva?"_

_She doesn't answer. Whatever he wants can wait; frankly, she's not interested in hearing it._

" _Ziva?"_

" _Mm. Tony."_

" _Ziva?_ Ziva! _"_

She feels a hand shake her shoulder, and she wakes with a start.

* * *

Tony has tried several times to pull Ziva from whatever dream she's having, but she won't wake. Usually a very light sleeper, tonight she seems determined to hold onto the images her subconscious is providing.

Finally, after several rounds of repeating her name with louder and louder volume, Tony finally grabs her shoulder and jiggles it lightly. It works, but within a half second, he's been knocked onto his back on the mattress and there's a knife to his throat.

This is more or less what he was expecting when he resigned himself to waking his partner. (Where the hell did she hide her knife, though? He _watched_ her as they went to bed; he saw no sign of it.)

"It's just me, Ziva. Wake up."

The deep suspicion in Ziva's expression fades at once, and she pulls the knife from his throat. She stays inches from Tony's face, though, and she frowns at him. "Why did you wake me?" she demands. "I could have killed you."

"Yeah, but you didn't." He's distracted by the way her lips look in the dimness as they form her words. He remembers all too well from years ago how those lips feel against his own. "And you seemed like you were having a nightmare."

This seems to frustrate Ziva more, because she leans closer to hiss at him. "I was not."

"Geez, okay, sorry for waking you, then." What's he even saying anymore? All he wants is to kiss her; he can't help the preoccupation. He is who he is.

"Do not do it again."

"I won't."

There's a beat, and then _she's_ kissing _him_. Tony groans into it, enjoying the instant gratification of wish fulfillment. He lets himself be caught up in it for a moment, but he realizes after a long moment just how _wrong_ this is, particularly when he feels Ziva's fingers start to dance down his chest.

He pulls out of the kiss immediately, gasping for air. "Ziva, stop. _Stop_."

She does, but she seems confused and frustrated. "Why?"

Tony dimly hears the knife thud to the floor on Ziva's side of the bed; he hasn't realized she was still holding it.

"Because this isn't a good idea. You're—you're feeling vulnerable right now."

"Do not presume to tell me how I am feeling." There's less annoyance in her tone, though, as she realizes that he's simply trying—yet again—to take care of her.

"Okay, sorry. I just mean that you've been through something traumatic, and maybe you're just feeling—sorry, you're just acting or whatever—you're wanting closeness because you shared so much last night. I don't want to take advantage of you."

"Who kissed who, Tony?" She doesn't move off of him, but she does lean away slightly. Not being able to feel her breath on his face helps Tony focus slightly, and he gives her a small smile.

" _You_ kissed _me_. But it doesn't mean I was right to kiss you back."

"You worry about you, and I will worry about me."

"I can't just turn off the concern, Ziva. You're important to me."

The rest of Ziva's frustration leaves her face, and she drops her forehead briefly to Tony's chest. "You are important to me, too," she answers softly. "But I know what I want."

"And that's me?"

"You cannot pretend we have not had… _tension_ … since day one."

"We have," he agrees, hating his morals for making him argue with her. He really _does_ want her. God, he's never wanted something so badly in his life, it feels like, especially since she's still partially on top of him, warm and sweet-smelling and very willing. "But I'm not sure now is the time."

In answer, she lifts her head to kiss him again, less fiercely this time. "I disagree," she whispers when she pulls away. "I think now is exactly the time. I am okay, Tony. I am. And I would not do this if I was not certain. I want… intimacy again, yes? I am ready."

When she kisses him a third time, Tony has a hard time remembering why he stopped her in the first place, and he kisses her back lightly. "Are you sure? You can't exactly take this back, Ziva?" he murmurs against her lips.

"Yes."

And he senses that she means it, so he stops arguing. Instead, he renews the kiss, trusting that she knows herself well enough to understand what she wants and needs, and having equal faith in her ability to stop them both if she changes her mind.

Ziva responds, immediately and with great enthusiasm. Within very little time, she has climbed entirely on top of her partner, and they're both groaning. "God, you're loud, aren't you?" Tony asks in breathless amusement when his hands find themselves on her breasts and she lets out a particularly loud moan.

"Shut up," she orders him, and then she does something with her tongue to the underside of his jaw that has him nearly matching her volume.

Clothes are shed, and while Tony half-expects Ziva to put a halt to their activities, she only seems to grow more fervent in her participation. He remembers her saying she prefers it on top—well, that certainly seems to be true. Maybe it's just that she likes being the one in control. Whatever it is, he's more than happy to let her have it.

When Ziva produces a condom from somewhere and starts to put it on, he tries one more time to make sure that she really wants this. "Ziva, are you—"

"If you ask me one more time if I am sure, Tony, I will trade this condom for my knife."

He gulps and shuts his mouth; she's smiling to herself as she rolls the condom on, certainly seeming at peace for now. He won't argue again.

When she positions herself and sinks down on him, Tony stupidly thinks that the City of Love is aptly named. When she briefly shifts her position, he thinks the City of Lights is even more appropriate, because he's seeing stars. Then she starts to move, and all thought leaves his mind completely.

Despite the somewhat fierce starts, Ziva moves slowly, languorously. The sex becomes sensual, overwhelmingly intimate, wordless but not emotionless. It's been a long time in coming, and neither Tony nor Ziva misses that fact.

Ziva's sharp mind logs details even in the throes of passion; soft sheets sliding across skin, her fingernails scraping through the smattering of hair on Tony's chest, the way her toes curl underneath her involuntarily when Tony hits _that_ spot, the surprisingly graceful curve of Tony's throat as he throws his head back in a deep groan that borders on a growl.

She'll remember this for a long time. So will he.

And when they finally come, it's together.

Though they separate to get cleaned up, they fall asleep holding hands again.

* * *

In the morning, it's back to business, picking up their witness and transporting her to the airport.

No one mentions anything from the last twenty-four hours. They don't bring up the dancing, or Ziva's confession, and they certainly don't talk about the sex. There are little smiles, though, little glances.

Hints of something passed and something that's maybe yet to come.

Of course, they both deny up and down that they shared a bed. That's just a given.

But they know the truth, and neither has any regrets.

* * *

Ten years later, Tali skips ahead of her parents as they stroll down Pont Neuf. Tony and Ziva are still a little cautious around one another—Ziva has only been back for a week—but they're determinedly pushing through it. They're holding hands now, going back and forth between murmured conversations about nothing and watching their daughter as she joyously releases pent up energy.

"This is where it all started, huh?"

"Where what started?" Ziva asks, but she's smiling—she knows what he's talking about.

"Us."

"I think we started in Washington."

"Maybe unofficially, but this is where…" he shrugs, and looks down at her with a rare flash of shyness. "You know."

Ziva's grin widens. "I know what?" she prompts.

"This is where we first made love," Tony reminds her, amused with her nudging.

"We were not even dating then—was it not just sex?"

"Jesus, woman, are you going to make me spell it out for you?" Tony laughs and glances over to where Tali has struck up a loud conversation with a charmed florist five meters ahead. She's quite the flower child.

"Spell out what?" It's almost a challenge.

"This is where I realized I loved you, Ziva David." He gives her a crinkly-eyed smile, the kind that's only reserved for her and for Tali.

"It was the same for me," Ziva agrees, feeling very warm. "And I never forgot. No matter where I went."

"Wherever you went… you were always going to end back here, in Paris," Tony says with a confidence he can't explain. " _We_ were always going to end up back here."

Paris, after all, was home even before they lived here.

_fin._


End file.
